


Calling Across the Sea

by HSavinien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Phone Sex, South America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has been sent to South America.  Crowley gets lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling Across the Sea

*Oi!  A-ZIRA-PHALE!  PICK UP THE BLOODY CONCH AL-*

"What in Heav- Alexandria's name is going on?  This _is_ Crowley speaking, correct?"

*Ah, good, you found it.  Do you have any idea what a pain in the neck it is to try working out your itinerary on the maps they have here?  Italy's all very well, but you seriously need to Inspire some initiative into them and get them to go exploring so there'll be less of this "Here Be Dragons" and more longitudinal measurement.*  Crowley's voice sounded clearly in his ear.

"Crowley, why am I speaking into a conch shell and how on Earth are you talking back through it?"

*Like it?*  The demon's voice rippled with pride.  *One of my new ideas.  A bit ahead of its time, I'm afraid, but someday personal-talky-boxes will be one of the supreme annoyances of the civilised world.*

"I...see," said Aziraphale, who didn't.

*Anyway, I decided to see how you were getting on over there.  How are they sitting for religion?*

"Oh, nothing too strange.  A rather nice flying serpent god you'd appreciate.  The names are all awfully long and musical.  There's a rising priestly class that worries me a bit, but as long as they don't run afoul of some drought or disease, I'm sure things will work out."

*Huh.*  Crowley paused for a moment.  *What does this incarnation look like?*

"Well, I must fit in with the locals, of course.  I'm a little shorter than I usually was in Greece.  Black hair, of course, and a rather Roman nose.  I've got a lovely cloak trimmed in birds' feathers.  Shed ones, of course.  No need for senseless waste of a life."  Aziraphale looked down at himself.  Yes, that covered it.  "Oh, and Crowley, they have the most _wonderful_ writing system here!"

*I'm sure.  Bringing any with you when you come back?*

Aziraphale sighed regretfully.  "Oh, I couldn't."

*What, having a moral crisis over cultural contamination?  That'd be a first.  Who was it showed Ptolemy all those Persian writings?*

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale replied airily.  "No, I actually meant that all the best stuff is carved into the walls of their temples.  They're lovely stepped pyramids, like ziggurats.  You ought to see them."

*I will at some point, no doubt,* Crowley replied, sounding vaguely bored.  *Aren't you coming back soon?*

"I'm afraid not, my dear.  I absolutely must stay at least another decade."

*A decade!* Crowley exclaimed.  *It's been bloody decades already!*

"I am sorry, Crowley, but notice will be taken if I don't give a decent length of attention.  Gabriel was quite snippy when I left Mongolia so quickly."

*You were surrounded by bloody barbarian horsemen and their fucking horses!  There wasn't a piece of literature or a drink that didn't smell of horse within three thousand miles!*

"That is unjust, Crowley," Aziraphale said weakly.

*AND we didn't see each other for twenty-five years as it was.  I was bored!*

"Well, surely you have plenty with which to occupy yourself this time," Aziraphale replied tartly.  "You were being so _accommodating_ to that young king, after all..."

*He's dead,* Crowley said, a little subdued.  *Coup.  Things happen.*

"Oh...I am sorry, my dear."  Aziraphale picked at a loose feather at the corner of his cloak.

*This wasn't...I didn't actually call you up to quarrel.*

"I didn't suppose so."

*Actually, I had something rather different in mind,* Crowley said, voice sounding at once more cheerful and darker.

"Oh?"

*Mmmhm.  I thought of a new invention to go along with this one and I wanted some help trying it out.*

Aziraphale frowned.  "Now you know I can't conscience participating in anything that will lead a human into sin."

*Oh, don't fret about that.  This is a personal project.*  Crowley chuckled.  *Very personal.  I just wanted to share it with you; I thought it might be fun.*

"Well, sharing is...good," Aziraphale allowed, cautiously.

*Exactly.  Something you should encourage in a demon, right?*

"I suppose."

*For instance, if I share the fact that I haven't any clothing on at the moment.*

Aziraphale felt his unnecessary breath stutter.  Ah, one of these games. "Well, it is rather warm in Italy at this time of year, I imagine.  Are you staying in the south?"

*Yes.  I have a lovely little villa all to myself.  The sun is shining in the brightest blue sky, I've had a nice bottle of wine and been sun-bathing all morning.*

"I see.  That sounds...lovely."

*That means,* Crowley purred, *that I'm nude, warm, terribly comfortable, and covered by a very slight sweat.*

Aziraphale gulped.  "Lovely," he repeated, aware that his voice was lowering in pitch and increasing in intensity, almost subconsciously.  "I'm...it's rather dark here at the moment.  Still night, you know."

*And you've dark hair and a feather cloak.  I want to strip it off you.*

"I'm not...I'm not wearing anything else."

*Even better. Take it off and lay it out on some nice, comfy sand or something so you can sit down and get comfortable.*

Aziraphale shivered.  "Ah.  All right, then."  He loosed the ties and draped his cloak over a nice flattish bit of dune grass.  "I've done that."  The shell was hurting his hand a bit.  He discovered that he was squeezing it tight.

*If I were there with you, I'd recline beside you, and stroke the very tips of my fingers down your ribs.  Just to touch you and remember the feel of you.  You do it.*  Crowley's last order had a tiny bit of pleading in it. 

Aziraphale complied gently, breath stuttering again at the touch, skin sensitised by the cold air.  "Oh, I want to touch you too..." he murmured, voice rich.  "I'd feel my fingers skid a bit in the sweat and press close to your warm skin.  You still have so much the serpent in you."

Crowley laughed and it had a gasp in it.  *What can I say?  Warmth makes me...interested in the world.  Especially specific bits of it.  What your neck tastes like, for example, when I put my teeth to it.*

"We've played that game before, you old serpent," Aziraphale reminded him, gasping a little at the thought.  "It wasn't nearly this friendly."

*Mmm, but this _is_ ,* Crowley replied, without a trace of doubt.

"I wish I could..." Aziraphale thought for a moment, "trace my fingers down that supple spine of yours."  He gulped.

*All the way to my arse,* Crowley agreed fervently.  *I want you touching me there.  I want you.*

"I want you too," Aziraphale said softly.  "Touching my chest, my face, my..."

*Cock?* Crowley asked, voice rich with amusement. *Oh, I hope you're touching yourself...fully manifested in the male form.*

"I—" Aziraphale began indignantly.

*I am,* he added.  *And thinking about your hands on me.  Fuck, you're bold.  I like it.*

"I...oh..."  Aziraphale was now certain that Crowley had figured out a way to look at him while they did...whatever it was they were doing.  The idea was more than pleasant.  "I am.  You're...beautiful.  I can imagine it."

*Fucking gorgeous, the pair of us.*

Aziraphale let out an undignified gasp.  "Together, we are."

*Hmmm, I _like_ that image.  You on your back and your cock up my arse...  Sounds a-fucking-amazing.*  Crowley's voice hitched.  *As it is, I have to settle for my fingers, but I'm flexible and I do have a good imagination.*

"Oh!"

*Tighten your fingers.  I know you're wanking.  Make it niccce and ssslick and tight and move your hand harder; I can ride you like the Night Mare herself, angel.*  Crowley made an indescribably pleasured noise.

Aziraphale gasped loudly and collapsed into a languid heap for the space of several shuddering breaths.  Then, recovering his self-possession quickly, he spoke firmly into the conch.  "Crowley, come."

There was a desperate cry in his ear, then the warm, humid night was still, barring pleased panting.

*Don't fucking lose that conch, Aziraphale.  I'm not making another and I'm _not_ doing without you altogether for ten more years.*

"Of course, dear."


End file.
